


be your valentino just for you

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: First Dates, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romantic Comedy, Slow Dancing, Valentine's Day, Wooing, no one saw me mistype the song lyric for the title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-25 22:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17733632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: Newton needs help in wooing a mystery suitor in time for Valentine's Day. Hermann agrees to help. What else are lab partners for?





	be your valentino just for you

**Author's Note:**

> ive wanted to name a fic after good old fashioned lover boy for literally six years. my time has come
> 
> happy valentines day!!

Years of sharing a laboratory with Newton Geiszler have given Hermann a sort of sixth sense when it comes to the man. When Newton’s particularly obnoxious, it means he’s particularly anxious about something. When Newton’s particularly _loud_ , it means he’s in a particularly good mood. When he teases Hermann, he wants attention (negative or otherwise); when he compliments Hermann, he wants wants to be complimented in return. When he’s particularly quiet, or particularly cagey, or particularly reserved, Hermann knows this means _something_ is _up_ , whether it’s Newton’s nerves or Hermann’s blood pressure approximately five seconds after Newton reveals what horrors he’s wrought on an innocent piece of Hermann’s lab equipment.

“What have you done?” Hermann finally says, after four hours of Newton skirting around him in the lab and playing his music through earbuds (practically unheard of) as he dawdles over his workbench.

Newton tugs out both earbuds with a small wince. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve done something,” Hermann says. “You’re only ever this quiet if you’ve done something.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Newton says, and then, “Define something.”

“Newton,” Hermann says.

Newton pulls his protective goggles off with a dramatic flourish and sets them on the bench. “It’s nothing,” he says. “It’s just—well, I have a date.”

He says it in a way that is an obvious invitation for Hermann to ask more, an obvious piece of bait. Hermann, never the one to pass up an opportunity to disappoint Newton—and truthfully, rather shocked by the notion of somebody being attracted to Newton _that sort of way_ —does not. “I see,” he says, and he hoists himself up to the top rung of his ladder and resumes scrawling across the chalkboard.

“I said I have a date,” Newton says, slightly louder.

“I said I see,” Hermann says, also slightly louder.

He makes it through three more digits before Newton throws his disposable gloves down on his bench alongside his goggles with an audible wet splat. “Don’t you want to hear about it?” he says.

“Not particularly,” Hermann says. He makes sure to squeak his chalk as he writes the next bit. Newton huffs, and he sighs, and he bangs his sample tray around, and then finally his heavy combat boots stomp their way over to Hermann and the stool Hermann keeps at his chalkboard scrapes across the metal floor.

Hermann glances down to find Newton eye-level with his knees, hands on his hips. “Yes?” Hermann says.

“Don’t you wanna _know_?” Newton says.

No, Hermann doesn't, Hermann really doesn't, Hermann just wants to be left to do his work in peace, but the sooner Newton's satisfied, the sooner it is that Newton will leave him alone, so Hermann sighs and relents.

(Besides—there's a very, very small part of Hermann that can't help but be curious.)

Newton insists they sit together on the lab couch so he can properly relay the details of his mysterious soon-to-come date. “I could just use advice, is all,” he explains, to which Hermann snorts.

“You want my _advice_?” If he was shocked by the notion of someone being attracted to Newton in that sort of way, he’s even more shocked at Newton’s assumption that Hermann would have remotely more experience in such matters. Hermann’s been on exactly one date in his entire life, dinner with a young man who sat next to him in a university lecture hall when he was nineteen. Whatever Newton's date count is, it's sure to be more than Hermann's.

“It’s on Valentine’s Day,” Newton explains. “And I really like him, so I need it to be romantic. Super, super romantic. The date of his dreams.”

“Do you really believe I’m—well, _qualified_ for this, Newton?” Hermann says.

“Yes,” Newton says, firmly. He adds, almost as an afterthought, “I mean, unless you think you can’t _do it_ , or I that know more than you…”

Hermann does take the bait this time. “No,” he says, quickly. “I can do it, Newton, thank you _very_ much.”

“Alright,” Newton says, with an exaggerated show of nonchalance.

 

* * *

 

The first order of business, to Hermann’s surprise, is picking out the proper attire. Newton is quite set on this. “It sets the tone for it all,” he claims, though Hermann does _not_ think this is a sufficient enough excuse for why he forces them both into clocking out early from work the next evening. He’s also promised Hermann a free dinner of takeaway dumplings for his troubles, however, and Hermann is not one to turn down such a _gracious_ gesture.

“Just make sure you don’t make a mess,” Newton says, as Hermann situates himself comfortably on Newton’s bed and digs in enthusiastically.

Hermann scoffs at that; there are three moldering coffee cups on Newton’s makeshift nightstand (some sort of packing crate and a stack of xenobiology texts), crisps wrappers littering the floor around his wastebin, a decent amount of crumbs on the bedspread, even, that Hermann brushed off before he sat down in the first place. “I’ll certainly try,” Hermann says.

Newton runs through his limited wardrobe quickly, and presents each option to Hermann like Hermann hasn’t seen the man wear essentially all of it over their near five years together. (Though a number of the more—well, _risque_ outfits Hermann imagines Newton must reserve for clubs and the the like.) Hermann finds himself torn between a slightly off-white button-down and a deep blue one dotted with small flowers. He’s rather more partial to the floral one, and Newton turns out to be too, so Newton throws that on the bed with a clean pair of brown corduroys and begins digging around his small wardrobe for a matching tie. “Maybe Tendo’ll let me steal a bow tie,” he muses aloud, and Hermann makes a vague noise of agreement around a mouthful of dumpling. Eventually, Newton gives up. “Eh, tie’s too much, anyway.”

Hermann swallows. “Who exactly _is_ your date, Newton?”

“You know,” Newton says, dismissively. “I’ve told you.”

“No you haven’t,” Hermann says.

Newton holds up a pair of boots (worn, old) and a pair of brown Oxfords that look like they have never seen the light of day. “Which ones?”

Hermann folds his arms. “Who is your date?”

“Jeez,” Newton says, “no need to get all jealous. There’s someone out there for you too, dude. I think I’ll wear the boring ones.” He waves the Oxfords at Hermann, and, out of nowhere, begins stripping out of his clothing. Hermann chose a very inopportune moment to start on another bite of dumpling.

“ _Heavens_ , Newton,” he chokes, looking at the ceiling quickly, but it doesn’t save him from getting an eyeful of tattoos and neon green boxers.

“Oh, come on, you’ve seen me naked before.”

“No, I haven’t.”

Newton snickers. “Well, now you have.”

Hermann waits until he can hear Newton zipping up his corduroys before he dares glance away from the ceiling. And, really, Newton _does_ look nice: the corduroys fit him well, the shirt even better. He looks almost professional. He looks, Hermann realizes with an uncomfortable jolt, like the sort _Hermann’d_ like to take out on a date. Or, perhaps more accurately, the sort Hermann would stare at and pine over from afar. “Er,” Hermann says, as Newton spins with his hands on his hips and more flair than strictly necessary, “very nice, Newton, that’s—yes.” He shoves a few more dumplings into his mouth to prevent himself from doing something he’ll regret, like complimenting the way Newton’s arms look in short-sleeves or how the corduroy pulls tight over his—well. That doesn’t matter.

It could be Hermann’s imagination, but it looks as if Newton's smirking.

 

* * *

 

When Hermann agreed to help Newton, he was, frankly, not aware of all that _helping Newton_ would entail. (The clothing thing was enough of a surprise.) He thought Newton would want a few second opinions here and there, maybe a “no other human being alive on this planet would find that romantic, Newton” or two, but Newton is dead-set on involving him in as much as his hypothetical wooing as possible.

Hermann learns this the hard way, when he’s roused at the early hour of a quarter past midnight by an ominous, dark shape looming over his bed and prodding his chest. He almost screams (first instinct) before he sees the glint of eyeglasses in the light of his alarm clock and realizes _of bloody course_. He hits Newton with a pillow anyway, because it’s nicely cathartic.

“Ow,” Newton says in a whisper, and Hermann reaches out and switches his bedside lamp on.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Hermann says, calmly.

“The kitchen’s empty,” Newton says. “I can practice.”

“Practice _what_?”

Practice cooking, it turns out, without burning anything down. At first, Hermann questions how Newton managed to guarantee himself full uninterrupted range of the Shatterdome kitchens, and then realizes the lateness of the hour probably has something to do with it. “We do have permission to be here, don’t we, Newton?” he says, eyeing Newton up suspiciously as Newton fiddles with the lock on the kitchen door.

“Of course,” Newton says, and then thrusts a small flashlight at Hermann. “Shine that on this, won’t you?”

“If we get written up, I refuse to take _any_ blame,” Hermann hisses, but he obliges.

Newton has the lock open in a matter of minutes with the aid of a small pocketknife, then ushers Hermann in after him. The kitchen’s even colder than the rest of the Shatterdome, and—drawing his dressing gown tighter around him—Hermann is glad he thought to bring it, even if it meant no small amount of cajoling and comments regarding Hermann stepping out of a Dickens novel from Newton. Newton flips on the overhead light. Colder, and _bigger_ than Hermann expected.

“Homemade dinners are sexy, right?” Newton says, tying his work apron around his waist. (Hermann decides not to comment on how unsanitary that is.) “Men who can cook are sexy.”

“You dragged me out of bed so I could tell you if you’re sexy?” Hermann says, and settles onto a small bench that the kitchen staff likely uses for breaks.

“No,” Newton scoffs. “I _know_ I’m sexy. I only dragged you out of bed to be my guinea pig. I haven’t had to cook for myself since I was in my twenties.” He rolls up his pajama sleeves. “What do you like to eat, Hermann?” He starts rifling through cabinets and pulling out things at random. “Pasta? You a pasta man? Is pasta sexy?”

“I like pasta,” Hermann says, though he’s not quite sure how to respond to Newton’s inquiring after the sexiness of it.

Newton forces him to taste-test no less than three separate pasta dishes, all of varying combinations and even more varying quality. There’s something with tomatoes that Newton chopped a bit too finely and cheese that’s just slightly off its _best by_ date, onions he burnt instead of browned, undercooked chicken that Hermann pushes off his plate and directly into the bin (“I’m a vegetarian, man, I don’t know how to cook that shit”), shrimp that he neglects to shell all the way. He _does_ succeed with the mushroom pasta, however, and Hermann actually willingly ingests more than two forkfuls, so he gives Newton his seal of approval.

“Success!” Newton says, and throws down his apron. “Cool, I’ll just make that.”

It’s near five in the morning at this point. They’ll have to clock in to work at the lab in four hours, and Hermann doesn’t really see a point in going back to bed, so he starts on the rest of the pasta. Newton wriggles onto the bench next to him and joins him in after a minute or so. “I haven’t decided on dessert yet,” he muses aloud. “I’m pretty good at making cupcakes.” He forgoes his fork to pick out a mushroom with his fingers, and Hermann swats at him.

“Unsanitary,” he scolds. Newton sticks his tongue out and takes it anyway. “Cupcakes are nice.”

“Or ice cream,” Newton says. “Do you like ice cream?”

“Once again, Newton,” Hermann says, “I don’t see why any opinion other than your gentleman friend’s matters. You should be asking him.”

“ _Gentleman friend_ ,” Newton repeats, and snorts. “Dork.” He picks out two more mushrooms. Hermann doesn’t bother trying to stop him this time.

“I don’t like ice cream,” he offers instead, “but I am fond of sorbet.”

“Sorbet. You’re a literal grandma,” Newton says, and shakes his head, strangely fond. “God, Hermann, I—” He touches Hermann’s arm, and Hermann wrenches it away in a panic before he can stop himself. (People don’t touch Hermann. Newton doesn’t touch Hermann.) Newton’s fondness fades into embarrassment. “Sorry,” he says.

Hermann wants to apologize, but he isn’t sure what for, so he hands the plate over to Newton and eases himself to his feet. “I’m going to get dressed for work,” he says, and Newton, still quite obviously embarrassed, nods.

 

* * *

 

They have two weeks to go until Valentine’s Day—until Newton’s _big date_ —when Newton finally begins divulging specifics. “I just don’t know where to take him,” he says, lounging on Hermann’s bed. He followed Hermann back home from work today, like an over-eager shadow, and is insistent on working through his problems out loud. He’s even brought a _notebook_ for it, which is more than Hermann can say for his usual work ethic. “Usually my go-to for dates is, like, the movies or the aquarium or something, but that feels...too normal for him.”

Newton took Hermann to the aquarium one time, the one here on the waterfront, right before it officially shut its doors, and used most of their time there as an excuse to show off his extensive knowledge of marine biology. Likewise, the last time they went to the movies together, Newton spent a majority of the time hissing a running commentary into Hermann’s ear and stealing all his popcorn. Hermann would not wish either of those things on any other unsuspecting man. “You’re already cooking him dinner,” Hermann says. “Perhaps something nice and simple would suffice.”

Newton pats the spot next to him on the bed (on _Hermann’s_ bed) and Hermann sits down begrudgingly. Newton inches over, pen poised over his notepad. “What kind of dates do you like, Hermann?”

Hermann thinks back to his date at university. They had dinner at a nice restaurant off campus, and the boy paid for it all and kissed Hermann’s cheek when he walked Hermann back to his flat. He didn’t call Hermann again, but at the time, Hermann had been quite...infatuated. “I don’t really know,” he confesses. “I’ve always fancied—well. The terribly cliche and romantic sort.”

“Cliche and romantic,” Newton repeats, smiling up at him. He copies it down onto his notepad. “Like, dancing? Champagne? Suits? Flowers? Some suave hunk sweeping you off your feet?”

“I suppose that’d be nice,” Hermann says. He grows warm. “Stargazing, too. That’d be—nice.”

Newton’s smile widens. He writes a few more things down. “You’re a closet sap,” he finally declares. “I should’ve known. Okay—” He sits up, far too close to Hermann. “What about, like, compliments? Are compliments sexy?”

“I suppose it depends on the compliment,” Hermann says.

“What if I was like—” Newton puts on a comically sultry voice. “‘Hermann, I saw your biceps in the emergency shower by accident one time and they were super hot’?”

“No,” Hermann says.

“Your hair isn’t totally unflattering,” Newton says. “It’s totally sexy how frugal you are about saving money and cutting it yourself.” Hermann touches the back of his head, mildly self-conscious; Newton looks guilty. “Your predictive model is also super hot,” Newton tries again, and Hermann rolls his eyes.

“Out,” Hermann says, and swats at Newton with a pillow. Newton flips his notebook shut and sticks out his lower lip in a pout. “I want to sleep, Newton.”

“We're not finished with this,” Newton says, but he wriggles off Hermann's bed.

 

* * *

 

There’s a bouquet of flowers on Hermann's desk a few days later—roses, a blend of reds and pinks and whites. They’re exceptionally lovely, and exceptionally _rare_ to stumble across in the middle of the war. Flower shops, it seems, are not anyone’s top priority in the midst of the apocalypse. There’s a little card attached, too, Hermann’s name written in red (in Newton’s handwriting) with a large heart. “Where on earth did you find these?” Hermann says as he examines the bouquet, after Newton does a very poor job of pretending they weren’t from him and that he has no interest whatsoever in Hermann’s reaction.

Newton waggles his eyebrows cryptically. “They’re nice? Pretty? _Romantic_?”

“Very pretty,” Hermann says, and then he offers the bunch out to Newton. Newton frowns. “Won’t you be wanting these for your date?”

“My date,” Newton says faintly, and then “my date. Yeah. Actually, you can keep those. I’ll just—get more.”

“Are you sure?” Hermann says, frowning.

Newton nods, and then nods faster. “Yeah. I’m—I’m not sure if those are the right ones. Keep them.”

“Well,” Hermann says. “Alright. Thank you, Newton.” He supposes they’d wilt if Newton held onto them until his date, anyway.

Three more bouquets end up on Hermann’s desk over the next week: more pink and red and white roses, a multicolored arrangement of tulips (if the roses were a shock, the tulips were even more so), a bunch of something purple that makes Hermann smile. “Just—experimenting,” Newton explains, as Hermann struggles to make room for the slowly increasing amount of vases on his desk. “Finding the perfect one.”

“I was quite partial to the tulips,” Hermann says, though he admits the lavender in this one is lovely.

“Good to know,” Newton says.

If Hermann was unprepared for the flowers, he’s even more unprepared for the elaborate displays of chocolate-covered fruit and heart-shaped boxes of expensive candies that come next. Newton must be blowing his whole _paycheck_ on these. And it’s all just a test, he claims, all just figuring out exactly what’ll make his mystery date tick. Hermann provides feedback as best he can, mostly because it seems to please Newton. The chocolate-covered strawberries are fine, but Hermann doesn’t like the pineapple; those candies are just a touch too sweet, but those aren’t; that ribbon, not this one.

“I certainly hope your date appreciates all the trouble you're going to,” Hermann says.

“Me too,” Newton says.

 

* * *

 

Hermann should be used to stumbling upon strange things in the lab at this point, between Newton’s long-standing habit of cobbling together bizarre experiments overnight and his more recent one of insisting on Hermann’s involvement in his romantic life, but he doesn’t think anything could’ve prepared him for this, for Newton lurking by his desk in a poorly-pressed _suit_. “It’s the trial run,” Newton explains, and then he taps at Hermann’s keyboard (Hermann really must change his computer password) and music, something soft and romantic, starts playing. He holds out his hand to Hermann. “Pretend I just made you an amazing dinner.”

“Er,” Hermann stammers. “Newton—”

Newton eases Hermann’s hand off from where he clutches white-knuckled at his cane, then situates it at his waist instead; he sets Hermann’s cane against his desk. Hermann does not flinch away from the touch this time; he welcomes it. “It’s just practice,” Newton says. “I promise I won't step on your feet _too_ much.” After a few moments, Hermann nods, leaning heavily on Newton.

_Elegance_ is not something Hermann typically associates with his lab partner. Not merely typically— _at all_. Newton is not elegant, nor graceful, nor does he inspire the grand sorts of romantic sentiments that Hermann finds himself attracted to. Newton is obnoxious. He is rude. He is loud, and he is careless, and he stumbles around like he’s immortal. He is not the type to sweep someone off their feet, to kiss with sparks and fireworks, to send flowers and pour out his soul in love letters sealed with perfume and hearts. Certainly not the type to dance—to twirl a partner (a partner, for example, like Hermann) across a dance floor like something from a black-and-white film.

But _elegant_ is the only term Hermann can think to use to describe the way Newton moves now. The way he moves with _Hermann_ now.

“Where on earth did you learn to dance?” Hermann says, because not even he—with his strict upbringing, a father who insisted his children outperform all their peers in every single possible area—knows how to dance. He clings to Newton for dear life; he’s gone weak in the knees for reasons other than his missing cane.

“I took lessons,” Newton says. He’s smiling, something easy and charming that makes Hermann’s stomach turn over, and his sturdy fingers burn hot on Hermann’s lower back as he nudges Hermann just a fraction closer.

Newton spins them around carefully, and Hermann licks his lower lip. “Why?”

“It was ages ago,” Newton says, and then, a little softer, “You can put your head on my shoulder, if you want.”

Hermann obliges. Newton’s wearing cologne. It’s not an unpleasant smell, just—unexpected. (Newton usually smells like stale coffee and formaldehyde, a grotesque combination which, in all honesty, Hermann should not find as comforting as he does.)

“I was trying to impress a guy,” Newton says. “I thought he might think it was romantic or something. You’re slipping a little, here—” He moves Hermann’s left hand more firmly to his waist; warmth spreads like tingling spiderwebs through Hermann’s fingers, and he resists the urge to shiver.

“Thank you,” Hermann half-stammers. “Did it—er—work?”

“Did what work?”

“Impressing him.”

For a fleeting moment, Newton’s expression is something unknowable, unreadable, and then his smile turns cheeky. “Maybe,” he says, and spins them gently again. (Hermann feels oddly put out.) “Leg okay? Need to sit down?”

To his surprise, Hermann feels the tell-tale twinges of pain in his knee that mean he’s been straining it for too long. He hadn’t even noticed. “Ah. Yes. If you wouldn’t mind, Newton—”

Newton helps him carefully into his desk chair and hands his cane over, then taps at the keyboard once more. The music cuts off. He hops up onto the edge of Hermann’s desk. “Well?” he says, swinging his legs. “What do you think? Sufficiently romantic? I'll probably ditch the suit. It's uncomfortable as shit.”

Right. Newton’s date. The reason for all this.

(Hermann’d nearly forgotten.)

“Er,” Hermann says. “Yes. Sufficiently romantic. Well done, Newton.”

He can feel Newton’s eyes on him as he rifles through a stack of graph paper—desperate to do _anything_ with himself that’s not mulling over Newton’s cologne, Newton’s _suit_ , Newton’s warm embrace, Newton’s skillful maneuvering of their bodies—and begins copying down equations at random. He doesn’t even read half of them. And still Newton lingers. “Is there anything else you need, Newton?” Hermann finally says, not looking up. (For whom did Newton learn to dance?)

“Nah,” Newton says. “No, it’s fine. Okay. Cool.”

He wanders out of the lab.

 

* * *

 

In bed that night, for the first time throughout all of this, Hermann feels the strangest sensation of _jealousy_.

 

* * *

 

Valentine’s Day comes.

Newton is as strangely quiet throughout work as he’d been that very first day. Nerves over his big date, Hermann presumes. It would make sense. Newton obviously cares about the man in question. _Really_ cares.

Hermann snaps his piece of chalk in half when he tries to write with it, not realizing how hard he was pressing down. Newton jumps.

“Are you okay?” Newton says, and Hermann looks down at his hand in faint surprise.

“Yes,” he says. “Apologies, Newton. I had—something on my mind.”

Newton clocks out of work a full two hours early. “Gotta get ready for my date,” he says, and Hermann threatens to snap another piece of chalk.

“Of course,” he says, through half-gritted teeth, staring intently at his chalkboard. His vision swims with numbers. “Do enjoy yourself, Newton.”

“Thanks for all your help,” Newton says.

“It was nothing,” Hermann says.

He hears Newton linger at the doorway, and then he’s gone.

 

There’s a knock at Hermann’s bedroom door at half-past eight, right after Hermann’s showered and dressed for bed, before he's even had time to properly brood over the day's events and preemptively brood over tomorrow's events, when Newton will surely show up to work grinning and smug as anything (late, in rumpled clothing, probably with hickeys) and Hermann will have to hear about how amazingly everything went for him, and how he's scheduled another date for the following weekend. Hermann pulls his dressing robe over himself quickly and snatches up his cane before storming over to the door, ready to unleash a little pent-up frustration and shout at whoever's disturbing him at this hour. Newton’s on his bloody _date_ , so it can’t possibly be him. He’s too busy _flirting_ , and _flattering_ , and _dancing—_

“Hi,” Newton says, when Hermann opens the door.

He’s in the floral shirt and corduroys. He’s combed his hair. He’s holding flowers.

Hermann blinks at him. “Newton?”

“Would you like to go on a date with me?” he says.

“ _What_?” Hermann says.

“Would you like to go on a date,” Newton says. “With me.”

“But—” Hermann says, “you—Newton, what about the your date? The one you already—?”

“Hermann,” Newton says, grinning. “I have _not_ been that subtle.”

 

They go up to the roof of the Shatterdome.

Hermann does not bother changing from his pajamas, at Newton’s behest (“I want you comfortable,” he insisted), but it’s uncharacteristically chilly out tonight so he does throw on his parka. He clings to the flowers and Newton’s arm the whole way up. Newton’s worn cologne again. The scent is as intoxicating as it was the other night. “I made dinner,” Newton says, “but I couldn’t find any champagne, so I hope wine is okay with you.”

Hermann nods, wordless.

Newton’s set up a small picnic blanket with pillows that Hermann recognizes from Newton’s bedroom and candles, though the wind snuffs out half of the flames by the time they sit down. “Aw, man,” Newton says. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting it to be this—gusty.” Hermann watches, just as wordless, as Newton uses one candlestick to relight the others, then as he uncorks their wine (fumbling with the corkscrew) and pours them glasses, then as he offers one to Hermann. Hermann takes it, and just stares. “Chocolate-covered strawberry?” Newton says, pushing a plate across the blanket to Hermann. He's visibly nervous at the silence; he drains his wine glass in one go. “Uh. You look really handsome tonight.”

Hermann finally cracks. “This _whole time_?” he half-shouts.

“The whole time,” Newton says, weakly.

“Why didn’t you just _say_?”

“Well. See,” Newton says. “This way, I was sure to get it right. What better way to wine and dine Hermann Gottlieb than through Hermann Gottlieb-approved methods?” He points up at the night sky. “Look. Stargazing, wine, flowers, candles—sappy romantic shit. Exactly what you like.”

It's dishonest, and Hermann supposes he should be a little angry at Newton, but he can't help but be...strangely charmed. “To be frank, Newton,” he admits, because it's a truth that's been eating away at him since Newton danced with him in their laboratory, “I would’ve been happy on _any_ date with you.”

Newton snorts, to Hermann’s surprise. “Man, I wish. You hated the aquarium, and the _movies—_ ”

Hermann nearly drops his wine glass. “Those weren’t—those were dates?” 

“They were _supposed_ to be,” Newton says, and turns gloomy. “But you hated them.”

Hermann feels a rush of guilt. Newton had been insufferable at the aquarium and the movies; he showed off, he interrupted, he distracted Hermann at every possible turn. But, Hermann realizes, Newton  _did_ cover the cost of everything. His mid-film interruptions weren't always entirely unwanted, nor was his stream of facts at the aquarium entirely uninteresting. He ate Hermann's popcorn, but he also bought Hermann as many refills as he wanted. Most importantly: Hermann _did_ have fun on every occasion. “Oh,” Hermann says. “Newton, I’m sorry.” He reaches out and takes Newton’s hand. “This is lovely. I love it.” Emboldened by Newton’s small, shy smile, and the way he curls his fingers around Hermann’s, Hermann pushes on. “I didn’t realize you felt…”

Newton nods quickly. “I do, Hermann. Like, a lot.”

Hermann rubs his thumb over Newton's knuckles. “You’ve certainly put a lot of effort into tonight,” he says. After a few moments’ consideration, he raises his wine glass with his free hand and knocks it lightly against Newton’s empty one in a toast. Newton beams at him.

They eat dinner. They have wine. Newton insists on hand-feeding him the chocolate strawberries, and Hermann goes along if not just to get a kick out of how terribly Newton blushes when Hermann _accidentally_ brushes his lips over Newton’s fingertips. They watch for shooting stars for a bit before they concede it’s simply too overcast, and there’s simply too much light pollution (as isolated from the rest of the city as they are), to make out anything more substantial than distant pricks of light. (“I’ll find us a good spot eventually,” Newton promises, but Hermann, frankly, does not even care.) They dance to no music, Newton as elegant as he’d been the other day, and Hermann just as enamored, just as flustered.

“I learned it for you, obviously, ten fucking years ago,” Newton laughs in his ear, and Hermann tucks his face against Newton’s shoulder to hide his smile. “I _really_ wanted to impress you. I also learned to play basically every song you ever recommended to me on the guitar.”

It's silly of Newton, but it's also very sweet, and, unable to help himself, Hermann brushes his lips over Newton’s cheek. Newton startles like Hermann pinched him. “Wow,” he says, and his expression is so ridiculous that Hermann tilts his head up and kisses him properly.

To Newton's credit, he planned a _very_ good date.

**Author's Note:**

> theyre in love!
> 
> find me on twitter at @hermanngaylieb and tumblr at hermannsthumb


End file.
